All Fun and Games
by E-finch
Summary: Ever wonder what would happen if he just suddenly...snapped? Who's laughing now? A horror story filled with gore, character death, and mature themes. Read at your own risk.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: All Fun and Games**

**Warning: Lots and lots of graphic gore festing. Plus cursing and death all around!**

**Disclaimer: Don't own the characters in this story or the TV show.**

**A/N: I felt like writing gore. I felt like writing Kurt. I felt like making him...connect more with his roots. Thus, this came about. I warn you once more, this is not for people who like love stories or want Kurt to be his fun loving fuzzy self. And, truthfully, I don't care if you flame me or not. I enjoy the hate. Especially when it comes to killing people.**

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**All Fun and Games**

**Chapter One:**

**Just a Thought**

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That's all it, or _they_, were at first. Thoughts. And who didn't have them, right? Especially since he was, after all, a mutant. It was a gift (curse) that came to only a few of them, and every one of them had to have some of these thoughts, if only once, right? That's why some of the mutants were even classified as evil, right?

So, at first, he didn't worry about them. He just let them come and go as he pleased, swearing it was because he was watching too many horror movies with Rogue late at night. It was fine, _normal_.

Until the thoughts soon came with pictures. Images, really. Each time they were getting clearer, and he sometimes swore the heavy scent was actually there. He was actually standing over them, panting, breathing hard and just watched.

That's when they turned into little clips, like he was remembering a movie or TV show he watched. Letting the characters and actions play out in his head, over and over again, slowly going from a silent film, to having voices and words. And those words always seemed like they were being preached from the bible. Heavy and _true_, seeming almost too persuasive to be called _just_ thoughts.

And it wasn't bothering him in the least.

The first time these thoughts came about, it was in school. He was ignoring the teacher's lecture on something about atoms and partials or whatever. His gazed was half lidded, turned to the window and his hand was propped to support his head. He'd gotten up late and still felt tired; 

sleep seemed like a good idea at that time. Just sleep through chemistry and get the notes from Evan later. No one would really care if he took a little snooze...

In the back of his mind, something flicked on as he stared at the dead autumn leaves falling to the ground from the high up trees. He recalled it as the news channel Ororo had on that morning as he passed by the living room with his pop tarts, leaving for school.

_"There is no clear trace as to who the killer was..."_

The flashes of the news crew, and the little bits and pieces they would allow to be shown on tv went into his head. The ambulance carrying off the body (two different bags) and even the place they found her. He could still see the little details that were with the scene. Drops of blood dried on the ground, the little nicks that could be evidence of a struggle on the bricks, and the blank sheet trying to hide all the leftovers.

And he couldn't really tell _why_ he was remembering it. The victim was...

He didn't know that. And it didn't really matter, because the news woman didn't seem to mind that behind her someone's wife was just murdered. Her voice was still monotone. Maybe even cold. He knew that it was probably something that came with the job. That you couldn't react to things like this, yet it still seemed so...

He still couldn't place the right word to it. Over time, he didn't need the word. He could feel it. He could feel something that was the victim and the killer. There were these...that's it. Thoughts running over and over and over, giving him these ideas and these different situations.

_What if?_

That's what it was.

What if.

And it always came back to the same things, with him in different positions with different people (friends) for different things. Different scripts that always had him saying something that was just _too_...

He wondered sometimes if Jean or the Professor was listening a little too closely when he got these thoughts. And if they were, what they were thinking about them. About what was running through his head. The images and movies and voices. Though, he knew the two telepaths normally stood clear of everyone's thoughts. Only reading them if it was truly necessary, and if they had permission. Then again, Professor X had lied to them before...

It made everything more clear.

Made the line of thinking and acting a little less solid. Because he could, that was the point. He could do it, all of it, and he _knew_ he could feel that there would be nothing in it afterward. One after the other and he wouldn't feel anything.

It was unholy and inhuman.

But then again, so was he.

And there were just so many reasons to think them. To do them. But he'd never do that. They were just thoughts, after all. Simple little shocks that made reality seem a little less real. Made _him_ seem a little less real. Like what he was thinking was right, and they were all wrong.

The one thing that started to make it all real, made it all come together, was when he started to write it out on paper. A few little flicks of pencil in the corner of his notes, spelling out words that seemed like gibberish to anyone else looking on (German). And it seemed normal enough, because he sometimes wrote between his languages. Who would ever notice the words 'tod' (death) 'blut' (blood) 'auf wiedersehen' (goodbye) '_freunde_' (...)? No one would take a second glance.

Then the little words grew out into sentences, long lists of things that almost made no sense even to his eyes. Then came details with little sketches. He wasn't that good of an artist, but with this you didn't need to be one.

He'd burn them all afterward, making sure that no one in the house would find them. They could always translate the writing, and the pictures would just give it away. What would he tell them? That they were just thoughts. Thoughts that seemed to make more sense on paper, made him want to act because he knew what they meant to him. He knew _exactly_ what they were.

It took him another month of thoughts to actually...act.

Because the thoughts never hurt anyone. The thoughts were pathetic because they didn't mean anything to anyone who couldn't hear them. And as they always say...

Actions speak _louder_ than words.

And it was _just_ a thought.

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**A/N: And the scene is set. A short first chapter, but it will get better. I promise the gore will come soon.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: What? Did you really think I would never update this again? Well, so did I. And then my inspiration came back!**

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All Fun and Games

Chapter 2

Self Mutilation and Why

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It was now winter, which could be clearly seen through the bare trees and frozen over sidewalks. People—humans –never seemed to like the cold. It was wet and bit at the tip of your fingers and toes. It looked pretty for the first few days, until the third or so day when one too many cars have driven over it, turning the ice and snow into a brown toxic looking slush that sunk into everything. It turned the world ugly.

Ugly. That was good way to describe it.

And it really was. More people seemed to die when the winter came around from heart attacks, icicles, and slippery roads. Once or twice someone would report on another freezing to death in his or her car or something. Kurt would then laugh at them. Not out loud, of course, but to himself. To a person who was born with a layer of fur, it seemed almost idiotic to freeze to death.

Today was one of those days that the cold was stronger than everyone's spirit. There was no school and no training. Everyone in the mansion was lazy, leaving the house quiet; empty almost.

Kurt sat in his room, alone, attempting to check up on some homework he had been putting off because of all the snow. His tail coiled and uncoiled on his chair leg behind him impatient and nervous. His desk was scattered with different papers and pens. He had been working on some math assignment, which is until his hand flew out and grabbed a thick red marker. It was like his hand worked on its own as it went into a frenzy, scribbling out some unknown words until the marker was gone and the only thing he could see was "bist du in Ordnung?".

_bist du in Ordnung?_

_Are you okay?_

The mutant had been staring at it for what felt like hours now, not moving or blinking. He didn't know what the do. His mind was racing too fast for him to actually pick up some sort of logical thought.

Outside it was snowing. Little gusts of white flakes attacked the dead trees, fogged up his window until it was too powered for him to see the outside world. Blind.

Racing. His heart was going too fast in his chest, pumping the blood too loud into his ears. It shouldn't have bothered him, at least not like this, but that phrase…those words! He'd heard it long ago, once upon a time in Germany, but that didn't matter. What mattered was what was behind those words and why he was so inclined in writing it down. Maybe it was just to get it out of his head, just too see it was actually on paper, to make it real. Like he could touch it; act upon it, something! This and everything else that those words meant that ran around his head, like little snowflakes that blinded his thoughts, the proper thoughts, and these snowflakes were slowly turning red, darker and darker, like the pen marks on his paper. And he's never looked at words like that before, never stared at them for so long! So hard! And it was making him mad! Mad, because he wanted to be those words. Mad, because sometimes he wanted to be in all those crashing cars just to see the faces of those in them, their expressions when they finally realized that was it! Mad, because he wanted to be the killer who put the knife in her chest. Mad, because he had thought of ways to kill almost everyone in this house (his friends!). And it was all driving him MAD!

Kurt was on the stairs, panting and all of the sudden feeling too hot as the sulfur sent burned his nostrils and his chest moved too fast. It hurt; he hurt as his fingers gripped the railing so hard his nails left marks and his knuckles ran pale. He'd just teleported out, anywhere, just to get away. The problem was, he didn't quit know what he was running from anymore.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he calmed down. His muscles relaxed, letting his vice grip let up on the rail and his heart started to beat normal again, so it didn't feel like the pounding would damage his ribs. He took in a breath, something he realized he hadn't done yet, before slowly descending down.

He didn't know exactly where he wanted to go, but let his feet shuffle along anywhere. His head was throbbing too much to care about where right now. He didn't know anyone else was present downstairs until his ears picked up on the soft hum of the TV. His head picked up, realizing his feet had taken him to the living room. Only one person was there at the moment. Logan.

There was no need for an introduction, as he was sure the older man already smelled his presence. If Logan didn't care to acknowledge your presence, there was no reason to announce it to him. Instead, Kurt just shuffled along the carpeting until he made it to the couch next to the one Logan sat on. Neither of them spoke. The sounds of the TV filled in the silence.

"—And later that night Ming-Ming gave birth to a health baby boy, which adds another addition to the panda family living in the New York zoo. Chip?"

"Thank you Diana. In other news, today it seems another shooting took place in downtown. The shooter killed two, injuring another, and is still at large. The motive is said to be some sort of gang violence, but could possible be another one of the newly named "Mutant Discrimination" cases. More info as it comes our way on channel—"

The sound cut out when the TV turned black. Kurt's head cracked towards Logan who was now putting down the remote, muttering something along the lines of "Filthy world…" or something. He shifted on the couch, lying out and rolling over for what Kurt decided was probably a nap.

Silence now in the room; heavy and thick without the TV sounds to make up for the lack of conversation. It felt too much room for Kurt to start thinking again, and this time he needed to let it out. Needed too. That report had opened up all the little doors he had locked up in his head. Plus, he was right there anyway.

"Logan?"

There was no sign of the man listening to him, no sign that he would actually respond if he continued. He did anyway.

"Why do people kill other people?"

He asked it straight forward in the tone of voice that almost didn't match him.

At once, Kurt felt Logan stiffen, and finally he moved again, turning towards him with a curious look.

"What?"

Confusion, maybe?

"I said—"

The other mutant pounced up at that, sitting up once more on his couch, half glaring at the kid. "I know what you said!" He hissed out, "Now tell me why, fur ball."

"Well," and he didn't want to sound like he was actually asking because he really, truly wanted to know. "It was just….the news…." It came out wrong on his lips, because he was lying, yet his mind said it was good. He didn't want to tell Logan the truth.

"Kid," Logan's official shock wore off when he answered, because it sounded normal. The man turned back around. 'There are something's you can't really answer."

For some reason, the elf felt his blood boil slightly at that. It was like Logan was just trying to brush him off; like everything was okay seeing as it seemed like some stupid normal question Kurt would always ask. He didn't want it to be ignored. He wanted an answer!

"Fine then," and he almost felt as if the teleporting took the teacher by surprise. "Why do you kill?" If it didn't, that did.

Slower then before, he got back up, staring up at Kurt from his position. "I don't count."

"And why not?" He was getting more defensive than he wanted to.

"Because it doesn't work like that!" So was he.

"Why not?!"

"Because I'm me and everyone—"

"Everyone is what?"

They stared right into each other's eyes. Logan looked like he was about to unsheathe his claws. Kurt's yellow eyes were wide, his tail quivering with excitement.

There was another moment of silence. Kurt couldn't tell if the older male was actually thinking or just ignoring him.

"Everyone's…not a killer." Logan finally answered.

Kurt's deepest thoughts almost spoke up then, but he pushed them back down. He didn't need Logan to know. No one needed to now. Not yet at least.

After that, Kurt stepped back, seeming to be satisfied. Neither said a word as Kurt walked off and Logan, still slightly confused, went back to his nap, or rather tried to. It was filled with too many nightmares to make it enjoyable.

The elf watched Logan slip into his half sleep, thinking, right before he left in a puff of smoke and crimson,

"That's what you think."

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The hours slipped by faster when he went back up in his room and threw out the paper with all the math and red words that seemed too much like poison in his system to keep looking at it. For the rest of the day Kurt just sat up in his room with the door locked. It's not like they couldn't get in, it was just a sign of wanting to be alone, have a little private time in the manor. It was like one of those things you respected, privacy, even if you had the powers to tae that away. That's want professor always said. Don't dig unless they want you to.

He stared out the window watching the trees get buried and the snowfall faster until Jean called everyone for dinner.

The meal was normal; everyone chatted and spoke of the news and the snow. Kurt might have said too little, because halfway through dinner Kitty asked Kurt if he was feeling alright and then Ororo pressed a hand against his head to see. There was nothing wrong besides his fluttering heart, which wasn't all that odd. He wasn't sick. He was fine. Perfectly fine.

Near the end of everything, when the last piece of good steak was being fraught over by Evan and Scott (not him, which everyone thought was strange too), he finally felt the eyes on him. Kurt turned his head slightly in the direction of the feeling and he was met with the glare of a wolverine. He almost glared back, but caught it in time to just turn back to his food. Logan felt something was up, he could tell. He had to hide it better.

Luckily, he was still enough of himself to groan when Ororo reminded him it was his night to do the dishes. His eyes looked to Evan and Kitty for help, even Rogue, but none would answer his plea as they all walked off to their own things. He huffed, grabbing up as many plates as he could carry and 'ported into the kitchen. Back and forth, back and forth, until the table was clear and all he needed to do was wash.

He stood alone in the last rays of the setting sun as they shone in through the window, breaking the sheet of snow. It slowly became darker, and he didn't care enough to turn a light on to see better. Not like it would make a difference. He could deal with the dark, his eyes adjusted well. He wouldn't need it. In the background, gusts and wind blew and the TV could be heard faintly from the living room. Kurt quickened his washing, wanting to join them.

That is, until a glitter of silver came into his line of vision. If flashed in the almost gone-light, just sitting on the counter top, waiting for attention. It was bad, really bad, because he hadn't let any of those ill thoughts in since dinner and now…now…

His fingers came down to grasp it. The knife felt good in his pale hand. The blade was covered in what appeared to be meat juices, stained with little drops of cow blood. Half of him promised the only reason he touched it was to add it to the sink filled with all the other plates and utensils.

Liar.

He grasped it harder.

The blade cut into his pale and he winced, dropping it. He almost jumped when the clatter filled the kitchen, almost. He held his ground, but he couldn't stop the staring again. The second time, staring and staring and thinking, because his was a good little thought. The knife and the pressure and—Kurt looked down at his hand, the thin line of blood and the knife now with drops of the same crimson –and the blood! Oh the blood! How fun—how fun!

He tried to ignore it, for his own sanity's sake; tried to push it to the far back parts of his mind with all the other nasty little things to sit and wait and brood. Then, the teen realized, his sanity was lost long ago.

He laughed. Another knife was in his hand, sharper and longer, fresh from the drawer. Another laugh.

He wouldn't be joining his friends tonight.

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It was late, long past any known hour he could think of. Everyone was in bed, sleeping peacefully or not so much. Bad dreams came all too often to this house. Everything was quiet, still, almost as if it were all frozen or dead. The snow outside had even stopped for the night, letting the fresh blanket look like a pretty little scene with the moon almost full.

Kurt was sitting on the carpet, cross-legged with all the lights out, letting the moon illuminate his room. In front of him was the knife, glimmering like it did. The metal looked like silver, and he didn't know why he wanted to touched it so much. It was just so…

Three fingers curled around the hilt, feeling the weight. It was too much, too long, too heavy. He needed only…

He shoved it to the floor, bending it with all his strength, curving the straight metal, harder and harder against the floor until his carpet had a long slit and his arm started to cramp. He did not, not yet; he could feel it almost ready to give, to snap. Just a little—

Shards of metal splintered out all around his room, some even flew up and cut into his exposed skin. He winced, feeling one piece sink into his cheek. It dug in deep, thin, and he could feel it every time he moved. The little shard came out easily, but he would need to bandage the cut. Though, that didn't matter now. No, because the elf sat and looked at the mess he had made. At the little broken knife that looked like shattered glass. To his amazement, the tip was still there. Jagged and chipped were it snapped off, yes, but still there.

His mind raced again. His heart rate sped up. His whole body was shaking. Would he really? With all the thoughts, all the little words and voices and pictures and…that's all they were, right? He could still just ignore them, right? There didn't need to be action involved, no need to—

_bist du in Ordnung?_

_Are you okay?_

_No._

And he teleported.

And then screamed.

It was short, because he realized how loud he would be, so Kurt bit down on his own tongue, feeling his fangs sink in deep, the taste of blood in his mouth, pain shooting through his nerves, but it wasn't from his own bit. It was the knife! The knife! He bamfed right into it, right there so his tail…the tip….the pain ran up his whole spine. He couldn't even open his eyes to see what it looked like, if there was blood, all he could see was white behind his eyelids and feel his fingers curl into his whole palm, cutting and bleed and reopening the wound from the kitchen, anything to stop this pain. He had felt pain before, he'd felt it all over, but nothing like this. His whole body felt like it was ripped apart, piece by piece. The very fabrication of his being was gone. It felt like fire.

The pain lasted for almost ten minutes until it dulled down to a thumping sting. It was then that he managed to open his eyes and stop his body from convulsing. He still shook and could still taste copper. His hands were covered in streaks of red, and so was his tail and carpet.

There was no sign of his missing tip, but there was blood pooling out where the knife and his skin met. It stained the carpet crimson and made the room smell like death with the sulfuric after taste. He stared at it until everything finally did go numb, then he stood and wagged it back and forth. It hurt and it felt heavier, but still…

Kurt's gaze fell on a book he had in his room. It was his text book for history. He was failing history. In a blink of the eye, he saw his tail fly over and stab right through the cover. It felt like a gunshot to his back, but he saw the aftermath.

He was almost disappointed it was just a textbook.

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**A/N: I've always wanted to do that. This is how I see Kurt as evil. In every single story idea I have were Kurt isn't his catholic, fun, happy self, he's always had a blade on the end of his tail. I don't know why. I just enjoy the image. It's my signature of evil Kurt. Enjoy. R and R and all that.**


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